


Other Side of the Mirror

by Telaryn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Phil Coulson, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Case Fic, Clint Has Issues, Clint Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt Clint Barton, Natasha Needs a Hug, Protective Natasha Romanov, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telaryn/pseuds/Telaryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's read maybe a tenth of the intel available on the Black Widow, but Clint is sure of two things: 1. She's looking for a way out, and 2. She doesn't want to die.</p><p>Now if he can just convince his superiors that he knows what he's talking about, things might start changing for the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Side of the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Out is Through](https://archiveofourown.org/works/435221) by [AlliSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlliSnow/pseuds/AlliSnow). 



> Written for the [2014 Be-Compromised Remix Exchange](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com/401012.html) I've never done a remix before, so when this exchange was announced I was excited to try. I signed up, got my assignment in turn...
> 
> ...and panicked.
> 
> [Allisnow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AlliSnow/pseuds/AlliSnow) is somebody I have referred to in the past as "the Michelangelo of the Clintasha fandom". White Blank Page in particular is literally the best case fic I've ever read.
> 
> So to recap - I sign up for something _I've never done before_ and the person I get assigned is Michelangelo and on the list is the Sistine Chapel.
> 
> No pressure. *g*
> 
> So I took a look at the other fics on the list and there was something about [Out is Through](http://archiveofourown.org/works/435221) that really spoke to me. I'm a sucker for Clintasha meeting stories, and telling Clint's part of that story seemed to fit the bill perfectly.
> 
> Why I ended up returning to White Blank Page to do a _second_ fic is a story for another entry...

He’s always had voices in his head – as long as Clint’s belonged body and soul to SHIELD his mind has never been wholly his own. _”You’re determined to push me into that nervous breakdown, aren’t you?”_ Coulson drawls as he puts his back to arguably the world’s most dangerous assassin and walks away.

“It’s all good, Boss,” he murmurs, knowing that the comm will transmit his voice as clearly as if Coulson were standing beside him. “I got this.”

 _”Oh where have I heard that before?”_ Clint can’t help smiling at that – Coulson is one of the only people he knows who can effectively convey a roll of his eyes without even being in the same room. _”There are easier ways of getting a date, Barton.”_ Clint doesn’t bother reminding his handler that this isn’t about him being attracted to Natasha Romanoff – at least not like Coulson means. It’s about justifying a decision he made some weeks earlier when he had that same assassin in his sights and decided not to take the shot.

It’s a short walk back to the apartment building and the penthouse suite they’ve taken over for the duration of the op, and Clint imagines he can feel her watching him the entire way. “She’s looking for an out,” he says again once he’s reached the relative safety of the elevator inside the glass-fronted building. It’s as much to himself as to Coulson, but his handler has never been shy about speaking his mind.

_”You were tasked with giving her one.”_

Clint flashes on a memory of the moment when she turned and he saw the acceptance in her eyes as she spotted him and knew she was done for. “It was the wrong call,” he says softly, repeating what he’s been telling his superiors for weeks. “You know I’m right Phil, or you wouldn’t have taken my side against Fury.”

 _”I’m getting soft in my old age,”_ is Coulson’s dismissive reply, and Clint can’t help but smile at the idea of his handler being anything less than perfect. _”Or maybe I’m looking for an out too, because if you’re wrong about this it’s going to be the end of us both.”_

“I’m not wrong.” Every time he’s forced to say the words, Clint grows more certain of his position. Natasha Romanoff isn’t looking to die; she’s simply trapped in a system that teaches death is the only true escape.

It’s up to him to show her a different way – a better way.

Even though a part of him cringes at the idea of comparing somebody like the Black Widow to an animal, he can’t help realizing that the techniques he’s using to draw her in are very similar to those used by old Gunther to convince the lions and tigers in the circus to cooperate. _”Fear and force are for fools,”_ he used to say when Clint would spend a rare free afternoon watching him work with the big cats. _”You hold the promise of an easier life – trust in that, be patient, and eventually they’ll come round.”_

Washing down two protein bars with the rest of the energy drink he’d cracked open that morning, Clint grabs up his bow and arrows and heads for the balcony. _“You know there’s a pool going on how long it’s going to take her to put a bullet in your skull.”_

Clint chuckles at that, moving into position – bow across his lap, arrows at his side. “If I live I get the pot, right?”

Coulson makes a non-committal sound as Clint settles in and prepares to wait. For all his bravado, he gets that they’re running out of time. Either the arms dealer they ran off taking possession of the penthouse is going to return or Black Widow’s sense of duty will get the better of her curiosity and she’l resume tracking her target. _Or somebody higher up on my side is going to finally run out of patience and pull the plug._

A cool breeze plays across his skin as he folds his arms across the balcony railing and takes in the scene below him. Natasha’s perch is a townhouse one block to his east; Clint takes in the view and frowns as he realizes she isn’t watching him. There’s no sign that she’s even home. _Patience,_ he reminds himself, exhaling softly. _She hasn’t run yet._ He doesn’t know how he knows, and he doesn’t bother saying anything out loud to draw Coulson into the conversation. It isn’t the first time he’s faced a long, quiet afternoon with potentially little to show for it after all.

Nothing about the scene prepares him for the sudden shatter of glass behind him roughly twenty minutes later, or the bullet that slices a line of fire across his temple.

 _”Was that..?”_ The question and the confusion in Coulson’s voice causes a shiver of fear down Clint’s spine as he turns and fits an arrow to the string. _”Barton, report!”_

“Little busy, boss,” Clint mutters, taking his shot. In the split second it takes his arrow to cross the distance separating him from his attacker, the man gets off another shot of his own – this one burying itself in the meat of Clint’s thigh. Unable to keep himself from crying out in pain, he grabs for the sliding glass door in a desperate attempt to keep himself on his feet.

From his position he can see that his attacker is down and twitching in his likely death throes, Clint’s arrow protruding from his throat. “Can you scan with infrared?” he asks, wincing as he accidentally shifts too much weight onto his injured leg. “Be nice to know if there are more of them waiting to finish me off.”

 _”On it.”_ Coulson, at least, has recovered his equilibrium and his professional tone steadies Clint in turn. _“How bad are you hurt?”_

“I’ll live,” he grunts, easing himself the rest of the way into the apartment. “How the hell did he get in here without anyone seeing him?”

_”Trust me – that is going to be one of the first things I find out. I’m sending a team to you to get you ready for transport.”_

“No!” Panicking, Clint loses focus for a second and nearly ends up on the carpet for his trouble. “Coulson, don’t you see…this is perfect. She can see the damage from her position – she won’t be able to resist coming to check it out for herself.” He takes a deep breath, trying desperately to will himself calm. “Phil, please.”

Their ear buds are sensitive enough that he can hear small noises as his handler considers and discards half a dozen responses in a matter of seconds. Finally Coulson says, “Convince me.”

“You’ve trusted me this far.” Awareness of how badly he needs to sit down is throbbing in time with his pulse now. “She knows I was supposed to take her out that night – she’s had half a dozen chances…hell, I’ve _handed_ her two chances this op alone – to take me out if that’s what she wanted.” Gathering his focus, Clint makes a move towards the couch and misses – going to one knee on his uninjured leg. Grunting in pain, he settles for half sitting, half lying on the carpet.

_”There’s a certain logic to what you’re saying and all kidding aside I get that you’re emotionally invested in seeing this through, but you’re asking me to sit here while you bleed out on the off-chance she’ll get curious!”_

“She’ll be here,” he insists, craning his neck to glance at his own blood splashed across the half-open sliding glass doors. “Ten minutes, Coulson – just hold off extraction for ten minutes. I know what I’m doing.”

The silence on his ear piece is long enough that his heart sinks – convinced that he’s finally lost. Coulson gets him better than any handler he’s ever had, but Clint knows that’s a double-edged sword in this case. _He’s not going to let you lie here bleeding across the room from a dead terrorist without knowing for himself how bad it is._ He’s actually taking a breath preparatory to offering Coulson a cell phone pic of his injury when his handler growls, _“Dammit, Barton.”_

His frustration is clear, but Clint can’t help smiling with the force of his own relief. “Thanks, Coulson.” The air shifts behind him and he tenses reflexively, not daring to turn back and watch the Black Widow slip over the balcony railing and take in the scene for herself. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” he says conversationally as he hears the whisper of her clothing brushing against the metal frame of the partially open doors.

The Glock in her hand isn’t a surprise, but he’s already made his peace with the possibility that she will see his weakness and use it to remove him from play. _”You’ve read maybe a tenth of the material on this woman, and you expect me to believe you can predict her moves better than people who’ve made their careers studying her?”_ Nick Fury’s words come back to him as she steps closer, watching him warily.

After a painfully long moment where he doesn’t allow himself to look away, she finally holsters her gun. “What happened to you?”

Clint nods at the man by the piano. “One of your friends, I assume?”

She doesn’t turn to look at the corpse, instead moving closer to him. “I don’t have any friends.” The words are colored with what Clint suspects is her native accent. It’s enough to tip him off that his attempt at levity is a pathetic failure.

“Guess I should have tipped room service better, then,” he groans trying to leverage himself into a more comfortable position as she changes tactics abruptly and snatches the embroidered tablecloth off the nearby table. Falling to her knees beside him, she begins methodically ripping the fabric into strips.

“Don’t move,” she snaps as he struggles to control his suddenly too harsh breathing. “I don’t think it hit the artery…“

“If it had, I’d already be dead,” he says, distracted by how right it feels to have her here after weeks of them dancing around each other. The connection he felt the night he let her walk away is back in force, and he sinks into it as she begins to bind up his wound.

 _“Extraction in five.”_ Coulson’s voice in his ear is a knife into the bubble that surrounds them. Clint winces, bowing his head briefly. When he looks up again he sees a flash of concern in her green eyes. “You going to interrogate me now?” he quips, shooting for levity again even though he knows it’s doomed to fail.

“I’m going to call you an ambulance,” she says, already looking around the room for a land line, “and then I’m going to leave.”

His gut instinct is to grab for her, beg her not to go, but he hasn’t gotten this far by acting like every other asshole who’s crossed her path. Still, if he doesn’t do something proactive he’s going to lose her – Clint can feel her pulling free of whatever it is that binds them to each other, and it hurts almost worse than the bullet wound. “I’ve already called for extraction.” The words slip out before he’s completely committed to saying them.

He’s ready for a stream of invective from Coulson, but amazingly for once his handler is silent in his ear.

“Extraction for two,” he adds.

She’s fluent in a dozen languages – he knows that from her file – but it still takes nearly a minute for the meaning behind what he’s said to sink in. “You couldn’t have known…”

He laughs – he can’t help it, she’s so flustered by him – but his breath fails him as she finishes tightening the bandage and his wound begins to throb. “I figured…” he gasps, trying to ignore the sudden churning of his stomach, “you would have just shot me… if you weren’t at least a little interested.”

She scowls at him, but Clint knows instinctively that he has her. He couldn’t put the feeling into words if his life depended on it, but the sense of her pulling away from him is gone and he knows as well as he knows anything that it’s all going to be okay.

“Who are you?” she asks finally.

“Codename… is Hawkeye,” he tells her, wanting to keep things professional until she can see for herself that his motives are at least relatively pure.

 _Natasha_ is clearly having none of his noble intentions however, if the look she shoots him is any indication. “Barton,” he says finally, giving her what she’s looking for. “My name’s Barton.”

Her head snaps up just as Clint feels the rhythmic thunk of rotors compressing the air, setting up a sickening counterpoint to the throbbing of his wound. He sees the shift in Natasha’s expression as she considers running one last time and discards it for good. Exhaling softly, she settles down into a lotus position at his side.

Clint swallows around a painful swell of emotion in his throat as everything gently falls into place at last. _Don’t leave me,_ he thinks as their eyes meet. The need he feels for her is deeper than sex, deeper than love. It’s like oxygen – now that he’s convinced her to stay Clint knows he won’t ever be whole again without her.

She raises one elegantly sculpted eyebrow, a small smile ghosting across her lips. “I’m not going to fuck you, Barton,” she says flatly.

It’s the perfect comeback to keep him from getting maudlin’ over the whole business, especially with Coulson’s snort in his ear for emphasis. Clint begins to laugh, letting his head fall back against the edge of the sofa and the last of his control go. “Thank God,” he says, closing his eyes. “I thought I was really in trouble for a minute there.”

Time slips away from him then, but when he regains consciousness only his surroundings have changed. They are on a transport and Natasha is talking to Coulson, but otherwise she hasn’t moved from his side. And while he would never presume to claim out loud that her hand on his arm is anything other than coincidence, deep inside he knows that it means everything.


End file.
